The Barrel Of A Gun
by Animaltalker
Summary: In an early SVU Episode Lennie Briscoe and Don Cragen talk about some of their lowest points in their drinking days. Lennie mentions waking up, looking down the barrel of his own service revolver, crying like a baby. Here's my take on that day.


Like most suicides he'd thought it out. He decided, if he were really going through with it, he'd have to do it somewhere other than his crummy little apartment. There were too many memories there, both good and bad, too many things that might dissuade him. If he caught sight of one of the few pictures he had of his daughters that might stay his hand from the trigger. If he sat on the bed or the couch or even his big old easy chair, he might think of the times he and Betty had made love there, and that would bring a wave of pain crashing down on him that would be too big to counter without alcohol, and he didn't want to try to checkout of life so drunk that he might miss.

No, he needed to be away from his apartment, but he didn't want to die out in the open. He wasn't an outdoorsy kind of guy. So the park was out. He thought about maybe doing it in his car, but somehow that seemed too chancy, someone might see him and try to stop him. No, he was going to have to rent a hotel room, but where? Well, no sense spending a lot of money on a room he only needed for a few minutes. Any old flophouse would do. One of the places where he used to collar cheap whores when he worked vice would do.

But first he made the rounds, said goodbye. He'd visited his Mom and called his daughters. Scared up a card game with his cousins and brother, even let his nephew Kenny play.

He'd written a letter trying to explain his motives, he wondered if any of them would understand. He doubted it, especially since the last time they'd seen him, he probably seemed so happy to them. He was. Ever since he'd decided to end his farce of a life things seemed easier. How could they understand the crushing burdens they'd all put on him by expecting so much of him? They thought it was praise and support to tell him how intelligent and talented he was, but to him it was as though they were telling him he was always suppose to be the best and brightest and that nothing less was acceptable. No one had ever loved him unconditionally, except perhaps his mother and even she had feet of clay he'd discovered.

Finally, he decided today was the day, he dressed nicely in a white shirt with a patterned red tie and navy slacks and because it was a bit chilly he put on a coat and walked to his uncle's liquor store. He decided he wanted to buy a small bottle of very good scotch for a final drink before his "departure".

"Hi Uncle Harry," Lennie said to the old man behind the counter.

"Lennie, my son let me look at you. It's been so long. You look good," the older man came from behind the counter and grabbed Lennie's right hand in his and put his large sinewy left hand around Lennie's neck. Finally he drew Lennie into an awkward hug.

Lennie had almost lost it at his "uncle's" use of the phrase my son, for in fact Uncle Harry was his father. Something Lennie learned as his father was dying of Alzheimer's.

"What can I get for you Lennie?" Harry asked.

"How about a small bottle of good Scotch?" Lennie asked.

"Of course, are you celebrating something?" the older man asked as he bagged a half pint of Dewar's, rang it up at cost and then paid for it out of his own pocket.

"You never know," Lennie said with a grin and a wink. He turned to walk out, but he turned back on impulse.

"Tell Aunt Sylvia I love her," he said and then he was gone to the sound of the door chimes.

He paid the desk clerk in cash and went up to the room. He took a quick look around, as his police training made him do by force of habit. He was glad he was only planning on dying in the room, not screwing or sleeping or anything like that. He was surprised to find that the heat worked well enough to make him want to take his coat off. He did and spread it on the bed. He sat on it and took out his service revolver. He opened the bottle his Uncle/Father had bought for him and took a drink. He began debating, temple shot or under the chin or truly "eat his gun". He sighed. He was procrastinating. Just get it over with, one more drink, and then put the barrel in his mouth, aim it up into the brain and pull the trigger, and then it's all over, no more pain. No more wondering why ever woman you give your heart to throws it back in your face. No more wondering why the only thing you're any good at is avenging the dead.

He took the drink, picked up the gun and turned it towards himself. As he stared down the barrel, and tried to work up the courage to bring the barrel closer to his face he heard a woman scream. He was on his feet and out the door in a flash. She was close by and screaming for her life.

"NO! JOEY! PLEASE STOP!"

Lennie located the door the screams were coming from, and simultaneously yelled POLICE and kicked the door in. He found a young woman perhaps 16 or 17 years old dressed in the typical garb of a streetwalker being brutalized by a nondescript lowlife who was undoubtedly her pimp.

"Freeze Joey," Lennie said brandishing his .38 at the pimp. "If you know what's good for you, you're going to get down and kiss the floor right now. Sweetheart, go call 911. I could use a little back up," Lennie said to the young prostitute.

She was frightened, like a deer in headlights, but eventually he got her to cooperate and the local uniforms showed up to take over. Just before they took her away in a squad car to give her statement downtown, she came over to Lennie.

"Hey mister, uh officer," she started awkwardly.

"It's Detective Briscoe," Lennie said, but then seeing how vulnerable she looked he added, "but you can call me Lennie, everyone does."

"OK Lennie, I just wanted to thank you. I mean you saved my life," she said sounding a bit awed.

"Well, we're even then, kiddo," Lennie said and walked away.


End file.
